Trying To Think Of A Way To Write About All The Bad Feelings Without Really Planning Out An Allegory Map Of Any Kind, Landing On Pet-Consumer Guilt

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My life used to be full of really cool paraphernalia. Drug addiction is a gateway to hoarding. You will notice many sober people double down on object collection in lieu of their preferred poison.

In The Bad Old Days (1995-1999ish), I had a 1920’s train case in which I kept all my stuff: ties, alcohol, cottons, fresh prickers, used prickers for needle exchange return, the dope itself, little baggies and pill boxes and matchboxes (for incognito public carrying). The case was grandfather’s shoe brown (tm 30Rock) with hefty taffeta pockets sewn into the sides and locking top clasps. I loved it. It was a really perfect pairing of form and function, one I have never since recreated in all the needle-free years since.

What I have now are some 1 dollar basket-colored plastic bins from the Dollar Store. In them, I have jumbled all manner of Pet Supplies. Here are some pictures.

At first I had a Cat Basket and Dog Place; then Cat Shelf and Dog Shelf; now it’s Cat Shelf plus overflow, Dog Shelf plus overflow, undersink bins, top-of-crate baskets (which hold in increasing number infuriatingly low-adhering Command hooks I keep plastering onto my walls to hang leashes and collars hoodies where they OBVIOUSLY BELONG).

One bin is just treats (apple biscuit, Buddy Bear peanut butter, Salmon Dots, non-rawhide Costco bones, loose Churus). It was initially for the bird food bag, but that guy got deposed to the cat shelf. The Weight Control kibble I should be using most for treats is on that same shelf. I bought the bin to hold cat food cans. Those are stacked, also, above. The upshot is, in my attempt to coalesce food bags into one box, I actually doubled the amount space food bags now take up. The skills.

I tried to group health and vet care items and that didn’t work. Started with the blood pressure cuff we both never use. It’s beside me now, under the bar. Here is a picture.

That’s the original bin for it, though. I tried to add ACE bandages and the neck collar and thumb brace and shoulder sling. Too overstuffed. So I got more bins and moved cold meds and first aid stuff into them. I tried to set up a dedicated “Foot Problems” box, with Nexcare tape and Calmoseptine (for ulcers and lesions) and foam tubes and gauze and safety scissors (all useful tools in the ongoing fight against my dropfoot/absent dorsiflexion/contracted toes) but somehow it overflowed with other medical crap I did not intend. The e collar and inflatable collar and post-neutering puppy pajamas and cooling hat and bandana gravitated there; and once Bongo got one or two normal injuries that required gauze and tape for a day or two, I dissolved in guilt at how starkly underprepared I was for disasters, so then I gathered up animal meds and emergency rations and split them into Go Bags which take up even more real estate in the pantry.

Here, reluctantly, are pictures.

Halloween costumes and Pride t shirts, Cat-It filters, Kong chewer bones, multiple catnips, Kirkland papertowels shoved in sideways, lightbulbs that do not belong!

If we proceed rightwards to the crate by the door, we find ANOTHER bin. This one is for leashes and collars and harnesses and going outdoor gear. It’s a Medusa’s nest and I hate it. Reference back to the heartbreaking Command hooks sabotaging even this attention-fractured-attempt at organization.

I am often so guilty about how little I feel I do for the animals. This guilt is squared by how guilty I feel about the glut of supplies and stuff and its dreadfully maintained state. My things are a mess and I was taught no one deserves to have things they don’t take care of. Responsibility is the price of access (my dad was raised in a Catholic orphanage and then joined the Army). And even though I know guilt-or feeling guilty- is a process that splits me from the present moment (protective, in its way) and is to be resisted for that reason, I’m not very strong. It is familiar to criticize my efforts, it is comfortable to tabulate my shortcomings. They have no end, if you ask me.

It’s been easier than ever, lately. I’m distracted and unfocused, and foggy. The animals are supposed to be The Thing I Do Now. The Good New Days. But somehow I keep collecting stuff stuff stuff. Like the train case, the closet is supposed to be a stylish solution full of tools that help me practice my calling. Why did I need so much less to do bad than I seem to to do good?

Off to something else domestic and precious I’m neglecting, byeeeeee!